Drabbles of Interest
by Dickensian812
Summary: A series of single, double, and triple drabbles about "Person of Interest." Usual disclaimers.
1. Impressions

Impressions

"He's like a professor—he's got the glasses and a high-dollar vocabulary."

At the other end of the comm, Finch blinked. As any man will who spends his life eavesdropping—even a man with a highly developed talent for being discreet—he had by now overheard quite a few descriptions of himself. He was accustomed to remarks about his height, his limp, his hair, and various other physical characteristics that presented themselves prominently to the casual observer.

Out of all these easily discernible traits, Fusco had noticed his _vocabulary_?

Perhaps there was more to the detective than he had thought.


	2. Aftermath

Aftermath

Reese slammed the door and walked away, leaving two stunned detectives behind him. An uneasy silence filled the car.

Carter finally broke it. "Did he say . . . you tried to murder him?"

Fusco grimaced. Now that the moment was here, there was no softening his answer.

"Yeah," he said, heavily.

Carter stared out the windshield at the flaming wreckage.

"You know," she said softly, "I kind of get it."

Fusco gave a surprised snort of laughter. The tension suddenly snapped, and anyone passing would have seen two cops sitting there, apparently laughing crazily at a burning car.


	3. Ridiculous

Ridiculous

Harold surveyed the scene, and sighed. He had penned Leila in a circle of books—making sure none were first editions—and given her an old tie, which she was gnawing. It was all he could think to do.

It looked ridiculous.

This was why he couldn't have relationships with people. (Well, that and the fact that he couldn't tell anyone about his Machine.) He had no idea how to interact with them. Not even a baby.

_Ridiculous. This is utterly, completely—_

Leila flashed him a cheerful smile.

Yanked from his reverie, Harold was surprised to find himself smiling back.


	4. Alarm

Alarm

(Set sometime before _No Good Deed_.)

"I think you might be wrong on this one, Finch. I think the perp is—"

All at once Reese realized that his boss was no longer walking next to him. He swiveled to see that Finch had stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, heedless of pedestrians pushing past him. His hand was just touching the pocket where his phone was, and his eyes had widened a little.

"Harold?" Reese stepped back towards him, putting out a hand to steer him out of the stream of foot traffic. "What's wrong?"

"I—nothing." Slowly, Finch brought his focus back to his associate. "It's nothing. I just—remembered—something. An appointment."

Reese studied the other man's suddenly ashen face. "I hope it's a doctor's appointment. You don't look well."

Finch turned abruptly, pulling free of Reese's grasp. "I'll see you at the library," he called back, and headed off faster than Reese had ever seen him move.

It was Reese's turn to stand and stare, for once caught completely off guard. Not that it mattered. Had he spotted the flash of red hair in the crowd, just about a hundred yards away, it would have meant nothing to him—then.


	5. Angry

Angry

Harold sat on the bench in the park, watching John Reese walk down Grace's front steps, and wondered why he wasn't angry.

He should be. He'd been known to bite Reese's head off for far less than this. Of course, by now he was used to the fact that his associate was insatiably curious about him, and harbored no qualms about indulging his curiosity. To some extent, Harold had made his peace with this. It was an unalterable fact of their relationship, and the price he paid for their association.

But to track down Grace . . .

Harold shifted restlessly on his bench. At some point, he was aware, he had begun to think of John Reese as a friend. But this . . . this wasn't the act of a friend. Nathan had never pried into his secrets—never with such single-minded determination, anyway. He'd given up after a few halfhearted attempts, and learned to respect Harold's carefully guarded privacy. Why couldn't John do that?

_Because John cared enough to find out._

The thought pierced him like a knife, so sharp and sudden he actually flinched. _No!_ He was horrified at himself for letting the idea into his mind, even for an instant. It was disloyal to Nathan, and disrespectful to his memory, and . . . and there weren't even words for how wrong it was.

Shoving the thought violently away, he got up and walked over to meet John. He was tired, that was all. Tired, and aching, and emotional from seeing Grace across the park. His heart was still pounding from that glimpse of her. No wonder he was having strange thoughts and feelings.

But as he glanced over at his uncharacteristically subdued associate, he realized that he still couldn't bring himself to feel angry.


	6. Faith

Faith

(Spoilers for "Bad Code.")

Logic, reason, every rational part of Finch's being insisted that Reese would never find him, even if he tried. Finch's own arrangements had ensured that. Reese and the Machine had a job to do, and it didn't include going after him.

Yet at the same time, a completely irrational feeling haunted him.

_He's coming_.

Slumped in his chair in the rural hideout, his mind starting to drift, Finch hazily took in the beeping of a cell phone. From somewhere behind him Root spoke, her usual hard, bright tone suddenly edged with annoyance.

"Seems I underestimated your knuckle-dragging friend . . ."

The meaning of her words came to him with a shock that widened his eyes and cleared the fog from his brain, if only for a moment.

_He's coming._

Even as he surreptitiously removed his cuff link and punched numbers into the phone on the floor and dropped the cuff link next to it, reason nagged at him not to get too excited. But something deeper than reason possessed him now. He lolled expressionlessly in the chair as his captor wheeled him from the house, but new, secret hope was blazing up inside him like a bonfire.

_He's coming._


	7. Nightmare

Nightmare

(Set post-"Bad Code.")

Sometimes he wakes up in a cold sweat.

Throughout his captivity, listening to Root spill details about his life, he had lived in fear of hearing one particular name. She couldn't have known about Grace—but she knew so many things she shouldn't have. Whenever she had mentioned his past, he'd tensed, waiting for the name that never came.

But now, in his nightmares, she gives him that sickening smile and whispers it, and he starts awake. Sometimes he lies there in the dark, wondering what he would have done if she really had spoken it.

He has no answer.


	8. Appearances

Appearances

So here, at last, is John's boss. Elias surveys him with frank delight. He enjoys dealing with John—all that noble impulsiveness and gullibility are amusing—but it's always so much more effective to deal with the man at the top.

Not that this quiet man looks like he's at the top of anything. He's an incongruous figure in the prison, so prim and collected. The suit is nice—very nice—but not flashy; the hands make only small, spare gestures. To all appearances, he is harmless.

Appearances, of course, mean precisely nothing.

Nobody knows that better than Charlie Burton.


	9. Slip

Slip

The silence of night had descended upon the library, but Finch had not yet left. He moved restlessly among his bookshelves, Bear padding along behind him, as if sharing his feeling of disquiet.

The very air of his sanctuary seemed tainted to him, ever since he had heard himself repeating Root's phrase.

Finch winced at the memory. Would he _ever _be free of her and her maddening, taunting voice? The bandage was off his hand now, and he had finally accustomed himself to going out again, with the help of his friend and his dog (_his_ dog? When had _that _happened?). He'd tried keeping her picture hidden away, then tried keeping it out in the open, like any other case photo.

But what good were these efforts if her words—her poisonous view of her fellow creatures—had invaded his mind?

He couldn't brush this off as a mere slip of the tongue; the stakes were too high. If he was starting to think like her, however inadvertently, he should just shut the back door to the Machine right now. He wasn't fit to be trusted with its power.

Finch sighed, running his fingers along a shelf as if searching for something. Nearly at the end of the shelf, he paused, tilting his head slightly, as a vague, very old memory came to him.

He turned and retraced his steps, gazing upward. At last his eyes rested on an old black leather book, dusty with disuse. He reached up and drew it out, regarded it doubtfully for a moment, then, pressing his lips together, carried it to his desk.

As Bear flopped down in his bed with a contented grunt, Finch slowly turned pages until he found what he wanted. He scanned the passage a couple of times, running his finger along the lines.

"_What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him? For thou has made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour."_

Finch closed the book and and stared thoughtfully at the cover. He wasn't sure whether he believed a word of what he had just read. Maybe . . . maybe this was just another kind of slip.

But for some reason, for the first time since the words "Bad code" had left his mouth, he was breathing easily again.

**Note: **This one was a bit of an experiment in form (the rare quadruple drabble!) and in theme. I assume that Finch would have some knowledge of the Psalms as literature, at least, but would he really turn to the book at a moment of crisis? I have no idea. But I do think he might be in a mood to turn to anything that would seem directly opposed to Root's worldview.


	10. Duty

Duty

(Spoilers for "Shadow Box.")

"As long as we're together," declares the young man fervently, and Harold sways a little where he stands, suddenly almost faint with fatigue. Another idealistic young couple plunging headlong into danger, thinking of nothing but romantic quests and romantic love, and because of them his friend (_his best friend_) is about to be captured, thrown in prison, and what on earth has it all been for?

But Harold says nothing. He knows he will get them safely out of the state, and yes, he will make sure that the two are together.

Because that is what he and John do.


	11. Angel

Angel

(Thanks to the-emersonobsessed-timelady on Tumblr for giving me the idea. And merry Christmas!)

Early Christmas morning, Grace came downstairs and opened the front door. It was there on the stoop, just as she had known it would be.

With trembling hands, she picked up the envelope, which was blank and unsealed, and turned it over. Carefully she took out the card. On the front was an angel—delicate, beautiful, unique. She knew before she opened the card that there would be no writing inside.

There had been a card last year and one the year before that—every Christmas since she had lost Harold. Every year a different angel, and never any sign of who had brought them. She'd suspected everyone from the policeman who had told her of Harold's death, to some unknown friend of Harold's, offering a little sympathy from a distance.

Or maybe, her mind whispered, it was her own angel, the one she believed had been looking out for her ever since he had been gone . . .

Grace smiled to herself and held the card to her heart as she turned to go back inside.

In the park, Harold Finch watched until the door closed behind her, before walking slowly away through the lightly falling snow.


	12. Deep

Deep

"What do you want?"

John's voice on the other end of the phone, with its note of impatience, brings Fusco a familiar mixture of annoyance and relief.

They're never going to be best buddies, that's a fact. But it doesn't matter. After all they've been through, Fusco's come to trust the guy. Sure, he can be a smug jackass. He can also be pretty damn effective at the right end of a gun. He could take care of this mess right now without breaking a sweat.

. . . And then what? John comes in with guns blazing and busts up this little rendezvous . . . so there's just another one later, with another cast of characters. One gunfight isn't going to break HR, not now. And if someone should happen to remember that Fusco took a phone call just beforehand, then . . .

. . . Then HR might just finally break him. For good. There's no getting around it: He's in too deep now for even Wonder Boy to pull him out.

With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Fusco hears himself saying the only thing he can say.

". . . Nothing."


	13. Empathy

Empathy

It's not really Shaw's fault, Harold reminds himself, as his back and leg begin to protest the forced march. She never saw him walk. She wouldn't have realized that she was stranding a lame man so far from civilization.

Of course, there's always the possibility that if she _had_ realized it, she wouldn't have cared.

That's what's gnawing at him. He and John deal with cold-blooded types all the time, but Shaw takes the coldness to a level that has even Harold feeling the chill. If this woman ever crosses their paths again, and he can't shake the feeling that she will, what might it be like to work with someone who appears so entirely free of empathy? Could they ever truly trust—

"Why don't we sit for a minute?" John's quiet voice breaks into his reverie.

Harold blinks, collects himself, and takes in the welcome sight of a bench at the side of the path. He can barely contain a sigh of relief as he settles himself on it, while John and Bear make themselves comfortable next to him.

He can worry later about whether Shaw has any empathy. All that matters right now is that his associate does.


	14. Identity

Identity

"And what about you?" The fake FBI agent repeats Harold's words experimentally, turning his head just so. "And what about you?"

Harold is staring in fascinated horror. Yet even as the sight of his own glasses on the murderer's face turns his blood to water . . . the strangest desire to laugh rises in his throat.

This man plans to take his identity. _His_ identity—that mosaic of so many fragments that sometimes Harold has to pause and try to remember exactly who he is.

_I dare you_, Harold nearly says out loud. _I just dare you to try_.


	15. Again

Again

"Oh no, Finch. Not again."

"You know how this works, Mr. Reese. We don't get to pick and choose the numbers."

"But isn't there some kind of limit?"

"Limit?"

"Yeah, you know—you get rescued a certain number of times, you have to take care of yourself after that. Grow up and stand on your own two feet."

"I concede that Mr. Tao is a little more accident-prone than most—"

"Accident-prone? This is three times now. _Three._ I think he 's doing it on purpose."

"Now why on earth would he do that?"

"How should I know why? Maybe he didn't get enough attention in his childhood. Or his mother didn't toilet-train him the right way. Or the mean kids stole his lunch money. Pick a theory."

"And while I'm doing that, I trust, you'll be on your way to the Mansfield Hotel. I've tracked Mr. Tao's cell phone there. You might take Bear along—he could use a little exercise."

"This isn't good for Leon, Finch. We're spoiling him. He's getting too reliant on us. Whatever happened to tough love?"

"You'll let me know when you're all done over there?"

"All right, Finch. All right. I'm going. Again."


	16. Sick

Sick

"That storm on the horizon that I mentioned . . ." Harold says softly, stricken. "I'm afraid it's arrived."

John is quiet a moment, watching Harold watch his computer. The wounded creator with his wounded Machine—an odd sort of symmetry there, though John's mind only hazily takes it in.

He's thinking that this uploading virus, whatever it is, has already begun infecting their work, poisoning the very air they breathe. He's thinking of the mission he's just been on, not like any mission the Machine has given him before—a mission of vengeance, not of mercy.

He looks away.


End file.
